


there's no dress code in alabastra

by alynshir



Category: Kingdoms of Amalur
Genre: F/F, Gen, Late Game, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-27
Updated: 2020-02-27
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:49:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22918000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alynshir/pseuds/alynshir
Summary: (written likely in 2015, edited for here and now)a penultimate scene in the ribcage of alabastra.
Relationships: Fateless One/Alyn Shir
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	there's no dress code in alabastra

It must have been beautiful once, you think. In this final hour, your vision has never been clearer, and as you sit as close to the fire as is acceptable without becoming the kindling yourself, you breathe in the air of a skeleton’s lungs. A skeleton’s lungs, you think, is a description that works pretty well for such a place, since it is dead and dying even as you huddle within it. Maybe a corpse would work better, actually, now that you’re really thinking about it, but you know you won’t remember it by tomorrow anyways.

You remember how you might not see a tomorrow, not with the stakes being so high, and the shiver that has you pulling the blanket you stole from Agarth’s pack tighter around you, has nothing to do with the cold. But then a flutter of wind sends you inching even closer to the fire, and then it is about the cold. Perhaps if you stare into the embers long enough, you’ll remember what being warm feels like.

You’ve been banished to your lonesome by the fireside ever since the light of the sun started to dwindle, under orders to “rest for the ordeal to come”. It’s _super_ boring, though, being made to sleep, and you hear voices raising higher than the fire’s smoke does, which is quite a feat considering the smoke is very high due to lack of trees to hinder the smoke’s journey. You turn away from the fires to look - although you already know what you will see.

It’s been the same for hours. Agarth, broad shouldered, face bleak, wrapped in furs that you’re considering stealing right off of him when he’s asleep. His hands are splayed flat against the makeshift table that had been covered with scraps of paper. Now there is a map there, and you can see streaks of new red on the beige. It looks like blood, you catch yourself thinking. Blood on skin.

Smaller, thinner fingers dance across the map, nearly grey against the yellowing vellum, and you remember - remember, as if you have forgotten - that Alyn is there too. You’ve been glancing over at her far too often, though, so you need to make it subtle.

(She’d probably ask you if you even know the meaning of that word. A fair enough point. It’s never really been your strong suit.)

Honestly, though, now you’re more doing it out of curiosity than the usual ‘why is she so pretty’ thoughts, because _how in Lyria’s name is she not freezing?_ Granted, you’re not the biggest fan of cold there is to begin with, but still. The only thing that’s changed in her attire are gloves - and they’re not even good gloves, they’re fingerless. You would make a joke about that, but you’re too cold to think about humor and you know the reason is probably for a better grip. She never has cared for gloves, and her daggers are strange enough to hold already.

Despite your burning curiosity, she barely seems to notice the cold and doesn’t notice you at all, her furrowed gaze searing proverbial holes into the map. You’re not quite sure what it is that’s causing so much of a problem, but you see the tension in her shoulders as she leans over the table, and you see her lips moving frustratedly as she growls something at Agarth, and you find yourself not really wanting to know at all.

You must have turned around at a good time, because with a glint of glasses you see Ventrinio drawing himself up to his full gnomish height, eyes flashing furiously as he charges over to the table, slamming a scroll down as he shouts about how ignorant Alyn is being. You see Agarth nod his head in agreement as Alyn recoils, insulted, and you are tempted to get up and intervene before she snarls something dripping with venom right back at him. You see one side of her lips twitch up in a flash of smugness before Agarth sighs resignedly, Ventrinio storms away, and Alyn leans back over the table, victorious.

You often seem to forget she can take care of herself. You know she can; from what you remember of her she’s always been that sort of woman. Not that you have the capability of remembering more than a few months of your time spent knowing her. But that’s not the point, anyway. What was the point? You don’t remember. It’s too damn cold for thinking so much.

“You have much to do. You should be sleeping.”

The Outcast has approached without a single sound illuminating his presence, and that’s a feat even in your book. You certainly can’t do that. You’d be jealous, but he has probably had over a million years to practice and perfect the trick.

He chuckles low in his throat, and you realise belatedly you'd voiced the thought aloud.

“Perhaps not a million, but a lot,” he says, his cold eyes sparkling like ice in sunshine and mirthful for the first time that you have seen. You wonder how he can be so happy, but then you remember that despite how broken, shattered, and dead it is, he is home. This is his home, where he belongs in his heart of hearts, where his feet will always take him if he finds himself lost. You wish you had something like that. You don’t, though, and if you did, you wouldn’t remember it anyways. You just end up following Alyn around a lot when you’re lost.

“Sleeping feel a bit contrived?” he asks, sitting beside you on the ground in his straight-backed, cross-legged manner and you jerk your chin in confirmation, too cold to truly answer. He nods, and then glances over towards Alyn and Agarth, who are bickering over something again.

“Will it ever stop?” you ask, not sure if it’s directed at Cydan or the fire or Alabastra itself.

“The fighting?” he asks, and you nod. “It won’t. War never changes, be it words in the head or a weapon in the hands.”

“That sounds awfully philosophical,” you comment, teeth chattering, and he laughs again.

“Is that so terrible?” He seems to notice your blanket and the shivering for the first time, and he raises an eyebrow at you. “That looks terrible.”

“The perks of being a dust mote,” you grit out through your teeth. “It’s the warmblood life for us.”

“Alyn Shir does not seem to be so affected,” he points out, and you scoff.

“She’s an outlier and should not be counted. She’s the weirdo.”

“Who’s the weird one?” you hear Agarth ask, as he gives up on the war table and on the map and returns to the fire to warm his stiffened hands. As he passes, he notices your blanket, raises his eyebrows indignantly, but then ignores it.

“You’re obviously the weirdo,” you confirm, and you catch Cydan’s smirk out of the corner of your eye. “What’s this appropriate clothing for weather business? Did you not get the memo? Summer clothes only! Varani, always behind the fashion times.”

You grin, because honestly, you’re so damn funny, and you hear an exasperated sigh from behind you, accompanied by the shuffling of papers.

“The same could be said for you Dokkalfar,” Agarth throws back. “Never knowing when to dress weather-appropriately. Or at all.”

“At least I look better than you,” a third voice chimes in, and you turn just in time to see Alyn saunter over. Maybe saunter isn’t the best word; the other elf is clearly too tired for such a thing, but if you’re anything, it’s super generous, right? Right?

“I’m not that bad looking, am I?” Agarth says, frowning dramatically. Somehow, you didn’t know such an expression was possible, but he’s accomplished it.

“Not at all, if one’s type is 'unkempt, drunken Fateweaver,” Cydan quips, and you snicker. Agarth sighs to himself.

“That’s never anyone’s type, is it?”

“Exactly,” Alyn says, kneeling down between you and Cydan. You can see the shadows ghosting under her eyes, especially in the bright firelight, and you can’t help but think she is the one who should be sleeping instead of you.

“So are you two done shouting about the army you’re marching around like toy soldiers?” Cydan asks, and Alyn sniffs.

“Perhaps if Agarth would stop insisting on plowing through every blockade, there would be no argument to begin with.”

“I was only saying that we should-” Agarth starts to say, but you interrupt.

“Stop it. Sit down. Breathe or something,” you order, although it sounds more like a plea in your ears. “You’re all trying to make me sleep so I can fight shit, but it’s not like you can all forgo sleep either.”

“Someone has to keep watch,” Agarth says defeatedly, and Alyn immediately volunteers, her voice telling a different tale from the yawn you see her stifle, her nostrils flaring as they give her away.

“No,” you say, and she gives you a look that demands an explanation. “Ventrinio’s not gonna be fighting tomorrow, he can do it.”

You hear the gnome grumble acknowledgement in the distance.

“You sleep,” you command, meeting Alyn’s gaze insistently. You too, Agarth,“ you tack on when you see the warrior open his mouth to protest the watch order. "Cydan, if you even sleep, do it.”

Nevertheless, it is at least another hour under darkened, crystal skies and with Alyn and Cydan playing some sort of card game that Agarth keeps losing money to, before you blink and accidentally send yourself into the quiet of sleep.

When you open your eyes again, the sun is barely shining enough for you to see the shimmer of frost on the outside of your blanket. The fire is cold and dead, but you find the breeze on your face to be less bitter than before. Alyn is slumped beside you in a manner most un-Alynish, her hair mussed and her face crinkled with some sort of dream-confusion. If you are quiet you can hear her mumbling something under her breath; you like to fancy it was your name at one point. Agarth’s head is thrown back as he leans against a crate, loud, tranquil snores cutting through the air, and Cydan is perfectly silent, back still straight as he sits peacefully in his pose. You wonder if he is actually asleep, or simply meditative. Either way, he looks quite comfortable.

You realise, as you stand, shrug off the blanket, and stretch up towards the sky and the day, that you have remembered what warm feels like. But instead of the blankets and fire, you wonder if it came from their hearts instead.

(Assuming Cydan even has one. He laughs at the notion.)


End file.
